


The Bird's-Eye View

by Neftzer_nettlestonenell



Series: Fare Thee Well [3]
Category: Highlander: The Raven, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Missed Connections, Past Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-16
Updated: 1999-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neftzer_nettlestonenell/pseuds/Neftzer_nettlestonenell
Summary: in which the highlander goes seeking a ravenand instead a magpie finds





	The Bird's-Eye View

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HL Raven's Nest](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HL_Raven%27s_Nest). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HL Raven's Nest's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hlravensnest/profile).

The Birds-Eye View by Ailis

**The Bird's-Eye View**  
****_in which the highlander goes seeking a raven_  
and instead a magpie finds  
by: ailis 

_Funny we should meet,_  
The three of us here on the street,  
You know I've wondered what I'd say.  
And now the moment's here,  
Suddenly it's crystal clear;  
Some things ain't never gonna change. 

From where I stand I see an old familiar story,  
Only last time I was in your shoes.  
Now it's looking like it's my turn to be lonely,  
And I'll tell you I don't like the view. 

It was raining hard in Paris, drenching the city and leaving the streetlights' struggling to illumine the darkened afternoon, their beams streaky as any Impressionist's rendering. 

Duncan MacLeod was in the city on a layover. He was in from Tasmania, where he'd been most recently. Most recently since he'd last left Paris, going on seven months now. 

He'd been so many places, more (he wished he could say) than he could remember. But he could remember them all. Tasmania was only the newest in a string of locales he had blown into like a leaf on the wind. The only thing he had asked for? That they were all places he had never been, places that held no memories. Uncluttered landscapes independent of the mark of Duncan MacLeod in any of his incarnations. 

Sometimes his destinations were thoughtless decisions. He'd find himself at an airline desk, requesting the next flight out of wherever he was. This had caused the occasional problem where hard to obtain visas were concerned. There had been some difficulty, but nothing that really diverted him (he had wished to be diverted). And so in seven months he had slowly, non-intentionally and indirectly made his way around the globe. Not exactly any competition for Phineas Fogg. 

And so here he was, back in Paris after a grueling barrage (he welcomed the stress) of layovers, missed connections, over-bookings, delays and endless meals of airline food (he feared he was developing a taste for it). Yet, still ready to leave on a momentary whim, as he had accustomed himself. Duncan's mind had settled on one thing alone over the past half-year; if one place no longer suited him, he would search and try out another. He had spent barely a sennight in the same bed. 

He had packed to leave the Australasian island as soon as he had gotten Amanda's note. His hand instinctively went to his trench coat pocket now, pushing past the purple velvet box also occupying that space. At the crisp feeling of the linen-weight paper against his fingertips, he relaxed. He already knew what it said without having to take it out and try to skim it again in the downpour. 

_Duncan,_ it read, in an undeniably elaborate Amandine stroke, so beautiful it would have made medieval monks weep. _It is time you came to see me, as I cannot get away and it is dull as tombs around here. If you can possibly catch a flight out, we can easily burn Paris to its foundation. Remember our dance recital on the Eiffel Tower? Well, news-flash, it doesn't have to be the end of the world to raise a little hell._

The note was signed with a great flourish, and enclosed with a business card adorned by a purple gargoyle sticking out his tongue at the reader, below which was the address for, _Sanctuary, club privee_. 

Duncan was on the street headed for that address now. It occurred to him once more that he should have taken a cab--at least then he would not arrive to be presented on Amanda's front stoop more resembling someone just off a water ride at an American theme park than someone ready to raise a little hell. 

He did have to admit that he had puzzled over the note at first. Last November Amanda and he had not parted easily, as had usually been the case (save when Amanda left him behind to take the fall for something). That is, _he_ had not parted easily. As for Amanda, he couldn't say. She had been resolved. 

He thought back to the sight of her as she had boarded the plane for Tahiti, despite the considerable effort and pressure he had allowed himself to exert over her to get her to stay. He did not rule out her leaving as a possible trigger for his recently self-enforced tour of the un-MacLeod charted regions of the globe. 

His response to the note had been swift on several accounts. At the time it had seemed a good diversion, since running from continent to continent had yet to ease whatever he was trying to ease. Secondly, he was curious as to how Amanda knew where to find him. That she had gone to the trouble of sending the letter to his solicitor in Paris, to be delivered to him the next time he contacted his bank for extra cash, seemed to smack of some need, some importance. Knowing that Amanda did not often show signs of need, except in moments of intense stress, he was intrigued. 

Duncan MacLeod had been born a chieftain's son, trained to think first of the needs of his people, to care for and protect them. Only lately there had seemed so few people he could call his own, even fewer whom he seemed able to protect. He had lost Tessa and Richie. He had lost Anne--in part, he believed because he had not been able to shield her from the world of immortals--and then, Amanda had walked away from him as well. 

Thirdly, Amanda had not written him an actual letter in over a century. Not that her note exactly qualified as a letter. She mentioned nothing of what she was doing in Paris, how she had been, if she had seen anyone or run into any trouble. But that was like her. Her letters of a century ago had been filled with all kinds of juicy bits, but rarely things close to herself. Things tangential ruled the pages of her only occasional missive. Who had given the most fabulous party, or perhaps a trip someone else had taken, a recent art exhibit that had caught her eye. 

This was odd when Amanda's seeming self-absorption was taken into account, but Duncan knew better than to trip over that old and deceptive landmark. Amanda loved to be in the middle of things, with everything swirling around her at an unbelievable pace. It made it easier to hide. To hide behind gorgeous frocks and whirlwind romances. Exotic intrigues and high-living lifestyles cluttered the vision, and made the real Amanda more difficult to see. 

Deep in thought along these lines, Duncan mis-stepped and nearly put himself off the curb and into the path of an oncoming Citroen. No hazard to himself, surely, but he had no reason to die today. _No reason._ Today he was going to see the woman who made his heart glad. 

He smiled at his near-calamity, and sighed with both relief and anticipation. Two more blocks and he would be to the club. He could make out the purple awning over the front door just up ahead through the rain. 

* * *

Amanda, currently Montrose, had stalled as long as she dared before leaving the club to get into the taxi waiting out the back entrance. She needed to look her best today to negotiate the deal she wanted. Ergo the rain, and the havoc it could play with her hair, suit, and general appearance--not to mention her new suede pumps--was the enemy. 

"Boss," Pascal urged from his place behind the bar, reaching over to grab her shoe-matching fawn-colored portfolio and handed it to her, "you can't wait any longer." 

"Yes, yes, I know," Amanda fretted in agreement. "Fine, I'll go out in the rain. But first," she took in a breath and spread her arms wide, "how do I look?" 

The fawn color was carried through her entire outfit, save the smallest bit of a cream and light periwinkle scarf at her throat, which at the last moment she had decided to tie around her head, babushka-style to aid in fending off the rain. But instead of bringing on her the appearance of an elderly grandmother, it made her look every inch the 1950s Hollywood screen siren. 

Pascal waited the appropriate beat, taking it all in. "No wonder it's raining," he rolled his eyes. "I think Mother Nature must be jealous." 

It had been the right thing to say. Amanda brightened immediately. 

"Thank you, Pas." 

Pascal could not say that it wasn't the truth. Somebody somewhere must be jealous. He had yet to meet a woman who could remain confident standing in a room next to his boss. Certainly his last two girlfriends had fallen prey to that insecurity. Amanda's good looks and sense of taste were one of the few things you could count on any day of the year. He had never seen her look bad, or rumpled, or commit a faux pas under any circumstance. 

He did have to admit, looking at her now, with her hair newly darkened to almost a sable--and growing longer each day--that he was a little bit in love with her. But as a Frenchman he felt it was only healthy. It would have been much stranger if such a beautiful and accomplished woman as his boss had failed to stir his affections. There was plenty of his heart left over for the many other women of Paris. In fact, after closing tonight he had intent to go out and look them over again for himself. 

"Well, see me to the taxi," Amanda instructed, and he moved to help her into her coat. She reached for where it lay across a chair, just as he had it in his hands. Pascal found it unexpectedly heavy, like she was carrying cannonballs in the pocket. 

"No," she chided, perhaps a bit nervously. "I'll do that, darling. You go find an umbrella." 

That was easily done, there was a canister-full waiting at the front doors in case members needed to borrow one in a pinch. They were your standard black parapluies with hooked handles, but in small and attractively scripted calligraphy _Sanctuary_ was printed in a nearly invisible orchid purple at the hem of two of their eight sections. This often added, he thought, to the fact so few of them, once borrowed, were ever seen again. 

When Pascal returned to the bar with the umbrella in hand, Amanda was in her coat, finishing a call on her mobile phone. 

"Looks like this might prove stickier than I had imagined," she chatted easily with him as they walked toward the exit. "They're not very hip on the idea of an anonymous buyer." 

"I don't know why you want an American football team in Baltimore, USA, anyway," he said in response, as they headed into the rain. He was used to addressing the boss in a casual manner. "Why not a football team here?" Her sense of taste in this matter was lost on him. Pascal's second passion in life, after his boss, was football. 

"Well, it's just about the greatest sport on earth, Pas--next to gambling, anyway--and as to why I want to own the Ravens, well, let's just call it taking back what's rightfully mine." 

Pascal gave in internally. He could not hope to understand everything. Truthfully, he did not even wish to. He saw his duty as clear as always: to back his boss in whatever she chose to do. 

As Amanda slid easily and un-raindropped upon into the waiting cab, he stood for a moment holding the umbrella high, as though it were still shielding both their heads, and watched the driver pull away, the back of Amanda's head scarf still visible in the downpour. 

If negotiating to buy a foreign sports team was what it would take to get the boss interested in things again, well, he would not question it. He would be all for it. Things had not been the same since Nick Wolfe had stopped living above the club and disappeared. Disappeared at least from the boss' world. 

Pascal moved slowly, almost reluctantly to the side, and closed the umbrella. Like a small child at play, he stood unprotected and let himself be hit by the falling rain as he dashed back indoors. He'd better call Wolfe and let him know that the boss was out for awhile so he could come by and pick up his things. 

_Never interfere in matters of love or matters of revenge._ Those were two things Pascal knew. This seemed to fall under the first, and if Mr. Nick Wolfe wanted to come by when the boss was out, to get his stuff, well, he owed no outstanding tab, and there was no other reason to prevent him from doing so. Pascal would make the call after he changed into a dry uniform. 

* * *

Duncan MacLeod came in through the front entrance of the club and was almost immediately sure that he was in the wrong place. The building he had entered, with its sculpture, drapes, and scattered deep-cushioned chairs was practically a gentlemen's club out of turn-of-the-century England. Hardly a place he would expect to find Amanda visiting, much less find Amanda owning. 

Where was the dance floor, the disco ball, the strobe lights? And the music, where was the music? What was that new song he kept hearing everywhere he went? _Her lips are Devil-red, her skin the color mocha, She will wear you out living la vida loca_? Now _that_ was more like Amanda. Loud, insistent. Sizzling. At the very least, he had imagined some sort of techno-music playing, perhaps something by Cher. He wondered vaguely if Amanda had ever straightened things out with her. 

He saw the bar up ahead and the bartender's back. Duncan stepped forward to ask if he was in the right club. 

Pascal turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. "I'm sorry, we're not open yet," he said. Realizing he did not know the rain-soaked man standing before him dripping onto the floor he added, "and when we do open it is only for members or guests of members." The fellow looked like he might want to borrow the phone to call a cab or an auto club. His car must've broken down, and he'd walked here from where he'd abandoned it. 

_Sacre,_ Pascal swore. _Why couldn't Gerard keep the front door latched? Open it and lock it, those were the only two things in the entire city of Paris he was paid to care about._

"I'm looking for Amanda," Duncan said, extending Sanctuary's card across the bar to Pascal. 

Pascal looked at it, feeling less than convinced. With a deliberate motion he pulled the in-house phone up on the bar and lifted the receiver as though he were going to ask her to come down. "Who may I say is here?" he asked, holding the receiver against his shoulder. 

"Duncan MacLeod." He had to gulp down that extra, _of the clan MacLeod_. He managed to successfully squelch the knee-jerk instinct. 

Pascal's face lightened and he put the receiver down without having dialed. _Now this was quite pleasant!_ "The boss isn't here," he said aloud. "She'll be back soon, though." 

Duncan was a little perplexed as to the bartender's sudden change in attitude. Was it that exciting for Amanda to be out? 

Pascal introduced himself, "Hello, I'm Pascal de Verges, and I'm going to have a drink with you." Pascal started selecting the best from which to choose. "Please, please, sit down Monsieur MacLeod," he encouraged. "Take off your coat..." 

"I thought you said the bar was closed," Duncan asked quizzically. 

"Yes, of course the bar is closed until three-thirty or four. But for you, I will open the bar. We will have a drink. Here, take this towel to dry off your face." And he handed over the towel he had been using on himself after his own merry dash through the rain. 

Duncan took the towel, removed his coat and sat down, but not without some misgivings born of confusion. He supposed Amanda had left some instructions about his arrival, yet he had not replied to her letter nor had he told her when to expect him. 

Pascal was busily attending to their drinks. Duncan asked for the Glen Morangie he saw sitting on the second shelf up. Pascal did not even blink at the request, opening the rare bottle and pouring him a liberal glass. 

At that Duncan's curiosity got the best of him. "Do you know me?" he asked. 

"We haven't met," explained Pascal, skirting the bar to sit down with his own drink. "But you're the Duncan MacLeod who sent the boss diamonds for her birthday, yes? She shook that tiny little package with the gold ribbon so many times, I was thankful when she opened it and it wasn't breakable." 

Duncan took a drink from his glass as he smiled a little smugly over the present he had sent. Anticipating the answer, he asked anyway. "Oh, did Amanda like the necklace?" 

"Let's just say," Pascal was wearing a smug grin of his own now. "That you were not a very popular man among the other guests of the party that night. But with the boss? Well, that was another story." 

They both chuckled easily, as they would in the company of a friend. 

"So how are things going here," Duncan asked, companionably. "I haven't heard much from Amanda about the place, except that she bought it with a man named Myers." 

"Yes," began Pascal, "the original owner came up, well...sort of exited the picture, and when it went to auction, the boss and Mr. Myers went into a..." He looked at MacLeod, realizing that he could probably imagine. "Very uneven partnership. Myers runs his security firm out of one of the upper floors." He gestured with his glass in the direction of the stairwell. 

"And who signs your check?" Duncan asked, realizing that Pascal called Amanda boss. But he couldn't imagine that anyone in the security business would not have someone in their own establishment on the payroll. 

"Well, I will tell you," said Pascal. "The boss pays me, but I also have a monetary agreement with Myers to listen for him, if anything of interest should be said while I'm on duty." He saw the question in MacLeod's eyes and answered it. "By anyone that works here or is a member." 

"So are you listening for him now?" Duncan asked, knowing that he did not need to worry. He gave nothing away to anyone as a rule. 

"I well tell you also," Pascal went on, "that the boss pays me to listen for her." His eyes twinkled just a bit as he let the last of his drink slide down his throat. "And I do not mind confessing that Mr. Myers' ear," he gestured to his right lobe, "is somewhat weaker--yes, yes, the doctor will tell you it is so! Than the boss' ear." A gesture to the left. "So I am not in conflict really, and cannot be blamed if the left ear remembers something first, or hears something whispered that with the right ear goes unnoticed." 

"Something tells me, Pascal, that whatever you're being paid, it's not enough." 

"This may be true, but as you do not know what my going salary is, nor what excellent benefits I receive, the point is somewhat...pointless." Pascal pulled an engraved Sanctuary cigarette case from behind the bar and took out a cigarette for himself, gesturing offering the case to Duncan, who declined. 

"I'm sorry," Pascal asked, "do you have a light? I am feeling very lazy and don't want to have to search..." 

"Here," said MacLeod. After rummaging around in his pocket, he flipped a small black matchbook on the bar. "Keep 'em." 

"Merci," came the response. 

"Smoking's bad on your health," said MacLeod, without conviction. He was looking to fill the time, and was beginning to wonder how long it would be before Amanda would return. 

"Yes, bad for my health," Pascal said levelly. "But I think, not for yours?" He struck the match, and so did not see Duncan's again-quizzical face. 

"Hmmm," said Duncan noncommittally, sneaking a look at the wrists of his companion, which were thankfully bare and un-tattooed. 

"Anything exciting happen lately? Anyone drop by to see Amanda that I might know?" Duncan had decided that if Amanda was not here yet, at least he could listen to Pascal's account of the past few months. 

"There are things that happen here that are very strange," said Pascal to the cigarette smoke hanging in the air ahead of him. "I don't mind telling you, because A-number one, you are the boss' good friend, and A-number two, something tells me what I have to say will not sound so strange to you." He looked at Duncan almost accusingly. 

"People that visit the boss don't stay very long," he began. "And sometimes they don't even seem to be her friends. There was one nice fellow that came by, Dexter was his name, but the police were after him--INTERPOL even--and the papers say he was killed." He paused. "Now you tell me why that leads to the club entertaining the agent that was hunting him down--Breslaw something, while the boss gets down in the dumps over what she calls 'her financial ruin' but doesn't mind that her beau Dexter got killed." 

He continued. "Then, around the boss' birthday, I go in the back to find a new cloth, minding my own business, when I see a man who is telling the boss she is his wife and he is holding a very sharp-looking sword to her neck while they have a witty conversation." 

"Did you ask her about it?" Duncan asked. 

"No," confessed Pascal, "I was too afraid she would only ask me _which_ husband I had seen." He shook his head. 

"There is also the Catholic priest, Father Liam. He is by here quite a lot and I like him. He's a nice man, but what a priest is doing saying Mass in Paris with an Irish accent, I do not know." He threw both of his hands into the air. "But most of all, things have gotten very gummed up ever since Nick Wolfe left." 

"Oh, Nick," said Duncan, hoping he had made it sound like he knew who they were talking about. 

"You know Wolfe? He ran the security firm for Myers out of the building. He left about a month ago, just didn't come back, and his apartments were upstairs, too." 

"I didn't realize he was living here as well." Duncan hoped he was still coming off as a knowledgeable insider. 

"Yes. He and the boss, well, I thought for awhile, and I know Myers thought...but then he doesn't come home and she doesn't say what's happened, and several times I overhear her and the Father talking about trying to find him and get him some place holy. His ex-wife was killed about a month before he left, so maybe that's why they're trying to get him into church." 

Something in Duncan's psyche clicked into place like a key fitting its lock. 

Seemingly unaware that what he was saying held particular significance for Duncan, Pascal went on. "The last I saw him he was very ill, but he called two days ago and asked me to let him know when the boss was out so he could come by and get his things. I was going to do that just before you came in. I guess he's going to move out for good." 

"And you say that Amanda's been upset over something that happened between them?" Duncan asked absently, thinking vaguely of his interpretation of her note as her needing his help in some way. 

But the part of his mind that was able to recall far beyond what he had eaten for breakfast three mornings prior, had already started shifting through four-hundred years of files stored in his memory. 

**_April 15, 1912...3 AM...Somewhere adrift in the North Atlantic_**

The first thing Duncan heard when he revived was the squeaky, high-pitched sound of a shrill whistle. A harsh contrast to the dull soundless cold that he had died to for the third time that night. Waking from the first death had been just as odd, the screams and cries of the many life-vested mortals begging for the boats to return competing with the sound of water disturbed by frantic survivors. 

It had almost been a comfort to die, if only for a little while. 

Seeing a light in the distance travelling toward the whistle's sound, Duncan paddled, as best his cold limbs could, in that direction as well. It was a young girl, somehow puffing away, though she hardly had the strength the breathe on her own. 

"Is there anyone alive out there?" came the call over the water in a broad Welsh voice, and Duncan answered, "Here! Here!" swimming clumsily with the young girl, almost passed out against him, to meet the boat. 

Once in the lifeboat, both wrapped in blankets the men at the oars could hardly spare, the lifeboat's officer--Lowe, Duncan thought his name had been--made ready to return to the other boats and wait. The crew in the boat was tired and shocked, and Duncan could tell that they had been searching among the dead for sometime. If only they had come sooner. 

The young girl had yet to say anything at all. She lay, staring up at the sky, in a trance. Duncan did not doubt that she too was in shock, and would have demanded a doctor if he had thought one could be found. In any case, she had been wrapped and dried as best they could, and time would tell if she came out of it. 

He was drained and more than a little shaken himself over what had happened. What still could happen should no one arrive to rescue those left. 

A Buzz with a moment of familiarity came over him, shocking him into wakefulness, sending power and warmth back to his extremities. He threw off the blanket, and turned to Lowe. 

"We have to go back," he said, imagining that in his ice-encrusted tuxedo he looked like a madman just up from a formal dinner party with Davy Jones. 

"Sir," Lowe said, obviously not believing him. "We have searched and searched. I'm afraid there is no one left." 

The other men in the lifeboat looked like they'd just as soon throw Duncan back overboard than maneuver the boat once again through the mine field of corpses they had just left. 

"I hear someone," Duncan said, pointing with his hand to the direction in which the Buzz had settled. "Over there." 

Lowe had the men stop rowing with their oars. _Silence._

"There is nothing, sir. I'm sorry." 

"I heard something. Over there." He added deliberately, "There is no need to hurry and return to the other boats if we can save another life." He punctuated every word. 

Lowe acquiesced. The boat's crew, and Lowe himself were surprised when they had finally reached where Duncan had pointed and they saw movement in the water. 

Though Duncan had sensed a familiarity in the Buzz, he was surprised as well when the face of Amanda peeked over the side of the lifeboat as they helped her in. 

"Duncan," she said, but had no strength for more. She died immediately in his arms. 

He quickly wrapped the blanket that had been given to him around her, telling the boat's crew she had fainted. 

"Probably in the effort to get aboard," Lowe offered, continuing. "I'm sorry, Mr. MacLeod, that I doubted your hearing. I apologize." He then turned his attention to the crew and rowing back to where they had left the other lifeboats. 

  
Amanda revived, thanks, the boat crew believed, to Duncan's attentions; rubbing her hands and patting her face. Still huddled in the blanket--her thin evening gown did nothing to keep out the chill--Duncan marveled over how beautiful a person could be, doubly beautiful in the face of the night's horrors. Her dark hair was frozen in its elaborate coiffure, her lips only now losing their grey shade. Duncan thought he'd never seen a more welcome companion for such a night. 

But Amanda was more than a little pre-occupied. "Have you heard anything about other survivors?" she asked, not noticing how the crew's faces changed at her question. "Did all the boats get away?" 

Duncan, who had been travelling alone, and had not been close with any of his recent acquaintances aboard ship, and had been one of the first to see his lady-friends aboard lifeboats, vests snugly tied, did not know how to tell her the truth. 

"Amanda," he began, "there weren't enough lifeboats. Not even for women and children." 

She started to shake. "Damn," she said, "Damn!" Her chin vibrated as before tears. "Damn me. Make them stop Duncan, and put me out in the water again." She tried to stand, but his grip about her shoulders held her firm. 

Like always, Amanda's reaction to upsetting news did not manifest itself in shouting and lashing out at others. Instead she was deadly calm and resolved. 

"Oh, damn," she said, into his shoulder this time, and he could hear the little noises of her tears. "All for diamonds!" 

"Diamonds?" Duncan asked quietly, his Scottish accent creeping in as it often did when he lowered his voice. 

Amanda sniffled. "Diamonds. Last week Lloyd's of London had insured _Titanic_ 's cargo of precious stones for over five million dollars American. Five million in diamonds!" Her voice broke, but she went on. "And some muckety-muck on board had brought Coeur de la Mer. And there was only a four-tumbler safe to crack after getting into his room. And oh," she was hanging on to his lapels for all she was worth. "Archie! Archie dead, and all for diamonds." 

She collapsed against him again, not saying anything coherent he could understand for sometime. 

"Oh, Duncan, I never should have done it, somehow I should've known. I just..." And Duncan held her through the rest of the night, there under the blanket, not caring about what the others in the boat thought; held her until she dozed against him, exhausted from her grief. 

On the ship's brief voyage, he had not met up with Amanda, nor, to his knowledge, her partner. But he was not surprised to find that Amanda had a partner along. She never really went much of anywhere without a man, in some capacity. He was sorry that she had lost someone she had cared so much about. 

He was sorry for so many things that night. He disconnected himself as best he could from what had happened--there would be more than enough time to think about that later--and tried to think about what he and Amanda would do when they were rescued and taken to New York. 

Dodging both the survivors' lists and the newspaper reporters would be something to plan for, possibly using aliases. Nothing good ever came from immortal headlines. 

And so he planned, as the starred sky lightened with the coming dawn, and the other survivors prayed for rescue. 

  
Even worn-out and grieving Amanda could not sleep through the shout that went up when _Carpathia_ appeared like a second sun on the horizon. 

The shell-shocked girl that Duncan had heard blowing the whistle to alert the lifeboat also seemed somewhat more aware as she was lifted to the Cunard Liner. 

With their turn to come aboard nearing, Amanda had raised her head and looked to the upper decks, where survivors were already congregating, straining to find familiar faces among those still below in lifeboats. 

Duncan personally hoped that he would not have to immediately encounter his acquaintances, whom he'd seen safely to another boat, now that he had made plans for himself and Amanda. There was only now to share them with Amanda once they were in some drier clothes and she was able to concentrate. 

_In a day,_ he thought, _maybe two._ Once aboard he would ask if _Carpathia_ had a spare stateroom for the both of them. Even a small one in second class would do. Luxury to them had always been just that; luxury, not necessity. 

"Duncan!" He heard Amanda shout over the tumult of voices shouting names down to the remaining. "It's Archie!" Her voice raised to join the others shouting. "Archie! Archie, darling!" she cried, with new tears routing down her face. 

Duncan followed the direction of her gaze upward to a greying gent with a thick head of hair and a full beard, who even in such dire circumstances somehow managed to look both hale and elegant. 

Even across the distance, Duncan knew that man had tears on his cheeks as well. It didn't matter what he knew or did not know about Amanda's gift of immortality. Duncan knew first-hand what it was to find someone you cared about after a night such as the one that had just passed. 

He wondered if there had been tears in his eyes when Amanda was hauled into the lifeboat. He wasn't sure, now, looking at her on her tip-toes, trying to get closer to _Carpathia_ and her friend aboard--who only hours ago she thought had perished from her greed. Duncan could only recall the strength seeming to return to his heart at that moment when he had recognized her, coming out of the sea like a North Atlantic Venus. He could not recall the condition of his eyes. 

Lowered to the deck from the contraption that had been used to get them aboard, Duncan moved to follow Amanda and be introduced to her new partner. But even though her eyes were shining quite brightly, something dulled them for a moment and Amanda put out her hand to stop Duncan in his path. 

"No. Please," she said, her eyes apologizing even as she spoke the words. "Don't come." She removed a glove from her left hand, deliberately displaying an unmistakable wedding band that she tentatively extended to him. "Say goodbye here. It will be easier. On us and on Archie." 

She stepped forward for something more than a polite society kiss, which is what under nearly any other circumstance he would have freely given. Instead he only took her gloveless hand in his and gently kissed the gold ring it wore. 

"Goodbye, Amanda," he said to her hand. 

"Duncan," she replied, but he gave himself over to the wash of people flooding the deck to find their loved ones before she could decide how to continue. 

... 

Duncan came back to himself in the present, looking at his own left hand against Sanctuary's bar. That left ring-finger eternally bare. 

Amanda and this Nick Wolfe were not married, Duncan told himself. Besides, he's left. But Duncan knew that times were different--not that Amanda had ever lived within the times. He almost smiled at that thought. He did not know of any or of what claim the two had on each other. Very well, he would ask her when she arrived. 

"Do you think Amanda will be back soon?" he said to Pascal, who was stubbing out what little was left of his cigarette. 

"Oh, yes," Pascal answered. "She always comes back or calls in time to tell me which wine to open for the evening." 

"You don't decide that yourself?" 

"Well I could, but no one has as good taste as the boss." Pascal reached over to where the card Duncan had handed him earlier lay. "Where did you get this anyway?" he asked, curiously. 

"Amanda sent it to me in a letter." 

"No, I don't think so," Pascal counseled. "Not the boss, these cards, with the gargoyle's tongue out, she changed her mind. But not to waste them, she sent them back to the States." Looking up from the card, he inquired, "Have you been lately in the States?" 

"No, but I have the letter here that it came in," Duncan reached into his pocket, recalling to his mind the jewelry case, which he brought out and placed on the bar. 

He handed the letter over to Pascal, feeling vaguely miffed that his authenticity was being questioned. If he had not felt so, he might have minded more showing the letter to a stranger. But then, he no longer felt like such a stranger to the other man. 

"No, no, no. Not the boss." Pascal chided, as though it were obvious to anyone. "See this," and he pointed to one of the _g_ s. "The boss did not write this. This was written by that Lucy Becker woman. Who was also the recipient of the rejected cards." 

For a moment Pas thought to look proud at his discovery, but realized quickly that no matter his own ingenuity, the fact that the letter was forged very much bothered MacLeod. 

Duncan thought he should have known, should have realized. Of course he did realize that it was Lucy trying to pull off a kindness, not so unlike the way some of Amanda's own schemes went awry. If Amanda had not been gone for the afternoon he did not doubt that it would have come off flawlessly, with both of them laughing later on over his unexpected visit. 

Laughing in each others arms. Laughing and then planning together--well, okay, mostly him planning--how to set things right with this Wolfe guy. He knew now that that was not what Amanda wanted. Duncan was quick enough to realize the many implications of Pascal's words and he was grateful for them. Something was up between Amanda and Nick Wolfe, tying them together, and it seemed that in the interim Wolfe had passed into immortality. Something that was never easy to take no matter the circumstances. 

And if Duncan stayed and played the part he fell into with Amanda; protector, lover, planner--in a word; chieftain, they would both regret it. Perhaps that was what she was trying to get across to him that day at the airport six months ago. That he couldn't always expect to play such a part, and that he should be more wary when trying to. That there was more than one way in which there could be only one. 

He thought of Tessa. It was not unfamiliar territory, he thought of her a great deal, knew he always would. He thought back and he wondered. Was this what it had felt like for Amanda? This frustration of being ready to be with someone who is not free and ready to be with you? And how it had been for Tessa. Feeling like she had to compete, somehow, that if she had been--what had she said--a lady pirate? That she would be more appealing to him, more able to stand toe-to-toe with his on-again off-again bad habit of a thousand-year-old lover. 

He felt tense. Tense in his head, tension in his heart, tension in many of the other places Amanda brought to life. He knew he couldn't stay. Not when she hadn't really wanted him. But he also knew that he was going to try and help out anyway. 

He made the decision quickly, after only briefly scouring his motives; likely because he knew a closer look might discourage the step he was about to take. He had come thousands of miles thinking Amanda needed his help, and now when he could not give it to her, he thought to give it to someone she cared about. 

"Pascal," he asked, "you said you were going to call Nick?" 

"Well, not today, anymore. The boss will be back soon." 

"Right," Duncan agreed, also feeling the new-born press of her return. "But you can give him a message?" 

"Of course." 

Duncan took out a small notebook he kept with him to jot things on, a habit he had picked up from Methos. "There's a place I own. I've been searching for someone to look after it for awhile. It's in the mountains, on an island sacred to the Indians. A holy place." 

Pascal's eyes narrowed significantly, but Duncan went on, writing as he went. "Even Amanda doesn't know where it is, so it's a good place if Nick needs time to think. I'll put the number where he can call for directions. He should talk to Cather Longwood. She'll be expecting him." 

"Cather Longwood," Pascal murmured, taking the paper with all the information and reading it over. It was really rather bare of important facts, to his eye. No talk of what the caretaker would be paid, or how to find the place, what the benefits were or who Cather Longwood was that he or she would be the one to contact. But something about MacLeod struck Pascal as true, and he would deliver the message, although he would comment on the strangeness and the urgency with which it was delivered. 

"And don't worry," Duncan added, "you can tell the boss," (it was the first time Duncan had used her nickname), "if you like that I gave you the message. It won't spoil things. Cather won't tell, and the fact Amanda will know he's there won't make her able to find him unless he wants to be found." 

"Okay," agreed Pascal, disappointed to realize that MacLeod was making to go. 

"You're leaving?" he asked pointlessly. 

"Yeah, I've," Duncan paused, "got an appointment." 

MacLeod turned to exit. 

"Wait," Pascal called, "You've left this behind." He held up the purple case. 

"No," Duncan stopped, but only half-turned as he pulled on his trench coat, adjusting it, Pascal thought, in a similar way to Amanda. "That's for Amanda. See that she gets it?" 

"What else should I tell her?" Pascal asked. 

"Nothing," Duncan found himself at a loss for what to add. "No message." 

_All right_ , thought Pascal, realizing that the freedom with which he had spoken today, MacLeod would never expect their conversation to be private. It occurred to him that anyway he had done the talking, and quite a lot of it, with MacLeod only listening. 

_A strange day for a bartender_ , he thought, and moved to wipe up. 

* * *

Pulling up in front of Sanctuary's front door (the club was opened now and so she used the awning-protected curbside entrance), Amanda's taxi splashed its tires about in the rain-filled gutters as it came to a stop. Just as she was finishing paying the driver, Amanda felt the caress of a retreating Buzz glance lightly over her nerves, causing her to drop a few coins of her change in the back seat. She left them there without a second thought and plunged, unmindfully of the rain and the wet, onto the red carpet, past the doorman, Gerard, whom she did not greet, through the doors, and into the lobby. 

Her heels made a wet clicking noise on the marble tiles as she glanced around as eagerly as a curious child before Christmas. 

_Where is my gift hidden_ , her face seemed to ask, the eyebrows lifted, the eyes scanning, the head cocked to any noise. 

Quickly she made her way over to the bar where Pascal was polishing away the wet rings his and Duncan's glasses had left behind with a white towel set aside for such things. 

"Pas," Amanda asked, still trying to keep her cool, "where is he?" 

Before Pascal could answer she continued, "Is he upstairs?" 

She had placed her coat on one of the bar's stools, and was quickly removing her gloves as well, her eyes still straying from corner to corner. Pascal saw her take one hand and unconsciously smooth her hair. It was not like the boss to be so agitated. 

Amanda was moving to go search the upstairs when Pascal told her. "He's already gone, boss. He left right before you got back." He saw her bite her lip. "I told him you'd either return or call to choose the wine for tonight, but he wouldn't stay." 

"Well," her face had lost its anticipation, but she still retained a hopeful expression. "If he came back this once, he'll be back again." 

Hardly a moment passed before she moved on to the next set of questions. "Did he look well? I mean, did he seem all right? Like he was getting enough sleep?" 

"He was pretty wet from the rain," Pascal shrugged. "But we," he cleared his throat. "I mean he, had some of the '59 Glen Morangie." His face scowled ever so slightly. "You know how almost nobody drinks that, boss--and it seemed to warm him up." 

Amanda's head turned slowly to a slant, like she was listening intently to something no one else could hear. She had been saving that bottle in case Connor was ever in Paris. 

"Glen Morangie, Pas? That doesn't sound like Nick." 

"No, boss," Pascal waved his hand in disagreement. "Not Nick. Monsieur Duncan MacLeod was who was here." 

"Duncan MacLeod." Her voice was that of someone who had received a letter informing them they had won two-hundred million francs, only to see the fine print that read, _if your name is drawn._

Pascal tried to prod her memory. "You know, the one who sent the diamond choker for your birthday." 

"I know who Duncan MacLeod is," she said flatly. 

Pascal had reached a point of not knowing what to do next. Amanda was so clearly disappointed. He did not have much experience with being present when the boss was disappointed. He personally made it his aim never to disappoint. 

He looked down and remembered the box MacLeod had left and picked it up, his thumb feeling the deep fur-like purple velvet that covered it. 

"He left this, boss." 

Amanda took it from him wordlessly, but he knew the exquisiteness of the packaging was not lost on her. He heard the click of the hinge and saw the top come up, but Amanda knew she had no audience or giver to show-off for and so the gasp of delight that it deserved went unspoken. 

An almost wistful smile crossed her face as one hand's fingertips lightly moved to inspect the brooch the box held. It lay against a background of creamy white satin and she turned so that Pascal could also see, then moved to sit down on the stool holding her coat. Something bumpy within the coat caused her to decide against this at the last moment and she moved over one stool, her elbows resting on the bar, the brooch in her palm. She tugged one of the green shaded library lamps ringing the bar closer and directed its light onto the brooch. 

"Monocle, please," she asked Pascal, holding out her hand, and he reached under the bar where Amanda inexplicably kept one of her many jeweler's glasses always at the ready. 

While she was appraising it with her knowing eye, Pascal allowed himself some long moments of appraising the boss without her noticing. 

He liked the way her neck curved as she held it at the necessary angle to see what she needed to of the many stones' cuts and clarity. Her hair fell forward slightly, parting along her neck, the smooth perfection of the skin peeking out like a cast of white marble lying in the folds of a mink coat. He even admired the way she was comically able to squint and hold the glass to her left eye when she tilted her head back from her work and asked if he would like to see it. 

Pulling himself out of his reverie, he smiled easily and answered that of course he would. 

Removing the jeweler's glass and polishing it for his use with the soft lint-free cloth he had been using to wipe up, Amanda handed him the brooch, mentioning a few of the details about it that made it unique; the workmanship of the way the brass had been turned. 

"But brass, boss?" he asked, affronted that anyone would send her anything less than platinum. Well, less than gold, anyway. 

"It's an antique. See? Turn it over and see the care that went into crafting the clasp and pin? Brass wasn't that uncommon before gold alloys were widely available. Though it can make heavy brooches." 

He weighed the brooch in his hand. "This one's not heavy boss." 

"No, it's not, that's one of the good things about it. It's not heavy, and yet the brass isn't easily pliable." 

He took a look at it now before putting his eye to the glass. "Amethysts?" he tried, "and some emeralds too?" 

"Exactly," she offered, "the amethysts are cut as brilliants, but unlike you would expect, the table--that's the flat top, Pas--is set upside down, and the culet--the points--are facing upward. It's really a pretty ingenious design." 

"But boss," he asked, bewildered by the shape. "What is it supposed to be?" 

"Why, Pas," she almost laughed, having forgotten herself in a semi-precious stone haze. "Don't you know? It's a thistle. The flower of Scotland. That's why the amethysts are set pointy end up. Thistles are, well, they stick up. There's a whole story. I'll tell it to you sometime." 

She was thinking about Duncan. Leave it to him to try and ply her with jewels. It had almost worked. For the time she had been looking the brooch over, she had not spent one millisecond thinking or worrying about Nick. A new record. But she knew even Edmond Dantes himself could not keep the treasure arriving fast enough to divert her forever. 

"So why give you a thistle?" Pascal was still trying to get past the commonness of brass. 

"Well, let's see," (he could tell she was going to make a joke). "Greek _amethystos_...thought to be a remedy against drunkenness. Also headache." She shook her head with a little grin. "No." 

Pascal waited. Amanda knew why Duncan had brought it, at least she imagined why. It was not so very unlike when she had given him her shard of the Methuselah crystal before he went to fight Kalas. Not entirely unlike when lovers got matching tattoos, or newlyweds exchanged rings. Not entirely unlike, but then not entirely like either. Things for Duncan and her could never have been easily explained or categorized. She told Pascal what she thought he could believe, what he could understand. 

"Sometimes, a man likes a woman to wear his colors. That's all." Her voice had softened, and she was getting ready to leave. She pushed away from the bar. "Did Monsieur MacLeod say where he was staying?" 

"No. No message," Pascal said. 

Amanda felt something lighten. If Duncan had left no message, then she wouldn't have any messy choices to make tonight. 

"But he lent me these when I asked him for a light." Not realizing he had just complicated Amanda's evening, he extended the matchbook. 

_Le Ritz, Paris_ it said in stately gold foil on the black cover. 

"Pas," Amanda paused from picking up her coat, and added curiously, with a hint of _you-naughty-boy_ , "you don't smoke." 

"No, boss," he replied with a knowing grin and the consummate Parisian shrug, "not often." 

"Whatever I pay you," she said, as always pretending to have no head for business or her own affairs, "I know it's not enough." 

"Oh, I get by boss," he said brushing off the compliment to his skills. "Should I call a taxi for you?" He assumed she would be leaving soon to see MacLeod. 

"If I go," she was not exactly replying to his question--in any case she was looking at the brooch's case, turning it over in her hand. "I won't come back tonight." She turned to make eye contact with him. "And probably not the next." 

"Eh, boss," Pascal threw his hands up lightly in response, "you only live once." He winked at her. "Right?" And for not the first time Amanda had a full second's stop to wonder exactly what and how much Pascal knew. 

"Mmmm," she said, frown line deepening as she turned toward the stairs. But she was no longer thinking about Pascal. She was thinking about the decision she had to make about whether or not to go to the Ritz tonight. It was a sizeable decision, and one she had hoped to put off much longer than she had. In a hundred years maybe she would be ready to answer it, but with Nick not speaking to her and the club and...excuses. She knew they were excuses. Amanda liked a well-thought-out excuse. They were very handy for taking up time, filling the air, and distancing feelings. Also for stalling. 

She felt the prick of the points on the brooch going into her palm. She had been gripping it a little too tightly on her way upstairs in the tiny service lift. As it fell away the shape of the thistle was visible on her skin, red and marked. Duncan had marked her, as, she knew, she had him. It was the way of men and women who loved each other. 

She thought of caressing the indented skin with her fingers to rub out the creases. Duncan wasn't necessarily expecting her or he would have said explicitly where he was staying, but she also knew that he was aware that she was consummately connected within Paris and could easily find out. 

To delay the decision further, she agreed with herself to draw a bath, soak for a half-an-hour with the warm tap still running, and decide then. She needed to clean up for the evening anyway. 

* * *

Amanda did not know that had she even called the Ritz at the very moment she turned the faucet on to fill the tub, that the concierge would have regretfully had to inform her that Monsieur MacLeod had checked out, generously paying for the night that he hadn't spent, walked out the doors with his luggage and had left behind no forwarding address. 

* * *

**_Epilogue_**

Duncan had spent the night at the airport. He could not see his way to staying in his rooms at the Ritz. If he was going to be uncomfortable, then it might as well be in an uncomfortable place where neither the plush decor and nor a welcoming bed would haunt him with things he was in no mood to enjoy. His flight was one of the first out, just a little after dawn. 

Once aboard the plane, and in the air, Duncan felt the tension drain somewhat, and he let his mind turned to the choice he had made so hastily. Not the one to leave without seeing Amanda. He felt that had been the right decision, the only decision. But the decision to offer Nick Wolfe a place without Amanda, a place without anyone, where he could try and think things through in safety--and a more liberal safety than a cloistered monastery would allow. That one troubled him still. 

He realized that Wolfe most likely had no idea who Duncan MacLeod was, or if he did he knew him only as a name he'd heard once, maybe twice, and would not know if he could trust the offer, or the offerer. But Duncan knew Cather could be persuasive. There was a genuineness about her voice that didn't exist outside of her corner of Texas, outside of being raised by Langtree Longwood, immortal cowboy. 

He reached for the AirFone nestled in the back of the headrest opposite him. The flight was quiet, the lights dimmed. It had been the first one out of Orly for the day, and he found himself imagining a similar sunrise at the L Bar L. Duncan dialed the number without realizing what time it would be there. 

"Yup," came over the receiver, and he could almost see Cather rubbing the sleep out of her eyes to squint into the clock. 

"Cath," he said, "it's me." 

"Mac," she said, and he heard her voice alter as she stood and moved across the floor. "You woke up the baby." But her chiding was not genuine. With a muffled intake of breath as she picked the baby up. "So?" she prompted. 

"So what?" Duncan asked, in his reverie nearly forgetting why he had called. 

"So, it's two-thirty in the morning...some places. Hang on," she said, her movement sending more odd sounds over the connection. "Okay, go on, he's down again. Only now he's in my bed here, and tonight was the third night in a campaign of definitely stopping that." 

Duncan smiled, thinking of young Iain wadded up among the sheets. "I'm sending someone up to the island. I was hoping you could get up there and clean it out first, maybe stock it for me." 

"Welllll," she was able to make the word go on forever. "It's not the best time in the season to leave the ranch, but I can take the helicopter up, what, as far as Seacouver? Unless you could fax me a map with a place to land closer, and Gris can...oop, wait, hold that thought." 

The click of a hold button left Duncan trying to organize what he could tell her about Nick Wolfe. What he knew about Nick Wolfe. There wasn't much. 

A moment, and Cather came back on. "What's the name of this person?" she asked. 

"Nick Wolfe," Duncan said. 

"He's on the other line right now." 

"Cath!" teased Duncan, "you got a second line! How progressive of ye." 

"Yeah," she responded dryly, "just for nights like this, when I'm the most popular person in East Texas." 

"He's one of us," Duncan said succinctly. 

"I thought as much. What does he know?" 

"Can't say, we've never met. He's a friend of Amanda's, but not in the mood to be seeing her lately, since he, um, came over." Duncan had to remind himself he was on a public plane, not in Cather's good parlor overlooking the river. 

"Huh," she said, which was about all the response Duncan ever got out of her on the subject of Amanda. 

"Do what you've got to do, but don't push," Duncan instructed. 

"Don't worry," she agreed. "Besides, pushing's your job. I just wait. It's more my style." 

"I guess we'd better not keep him waiting any longer." Her silence agreed. "Kiss the baby for me. I'll call again." 

" _Oidhche mhath_ ," Cather said, in her still-sleepy uncertainty wishing him the goodnight that she was about to experience, instead of the good day that he was heading into aboard Egyptair. 

The phone clicked off and Duncan reset it in its place. He had to take out his ticket to remind himself exactly where his destination lay. He saw several stops, including one in Aswan, but eventually he wouldend up in Sudan. Khartoum to be exact. 

He knew he was still running, he did not kid himself about that, but this morning was the first time in over six months that Duncan MacLeod felt no desire to be travelling any faster than he was. 

_The End_

  
07/16/99

* * *

**DISCLAIMER**

CHARACTERS:: The characters of Nick Wolfe, Amanda (choose a surname), Duncan MacLeod, and even the bartender Pascal are property of Gaumont/Rysher/Panzer-Davis. **Cather Longwood is mine. And she isn't allowed to play or speak with strangers.** You'll be seeing more of her, though, in the next (sort-of linked piece) _HL/HTR: The Seventh Sense_. TPTB's Pascal is really nothing more than an extra with two lines from the Raven episode _Love and Death_. My Pascal owes a great deal of himself to Sasha, the Russian bartender in _Casablanca_. A great deal, but not all. No Methos this time :( (Practically had to bribe my muse to keep Methos distracted with other things while I wrote;) 

**TIMELINE::** According to Pascal, this story takes place about a month, give or take a couple of days, after occurrences in _The Raven_ 's finale (Season or series--most likely both) _Dead on Arrival_. 

**NOD OF THE QUILL PEN TO::** If you want to read about Amanda and Duncan just before she left on that plane for Tahiti last November, go see Alice in Stonyland's story [Until Then](http://www.crosswinds.net/~stonyland/fiction/until_then.html). It has an * _inspired_ * timeline that intertwines _The Raven_ 's first season and _Highlander_ 's last. 

**EPIGRAPH::** From the 1995 Polygram release, _Kim Richey. From Where I Stand_, written by: Kim Richey & Tia M. Sillers. USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. In actuality, a song that is much lighter in its melody and delivery than it is in its lyrical message. 

**FLASHBACK::** In the _Highlander_ episode, _For Tomorrow We Die_ , Tessa teases Duncan about having last worn a tuxedo on _Titanic_ , something he neither confirms nor denies [and something that is not entirely true--the tuxedo part--in lining up with flashbacks we have since seen]. In _The Raven_ episode, _The Devil You Know_ , Lucy Becker likewise cracks that Amanda went down with the _Titanic_. Something Amanda does not take issue with. As far as my choice of flashback, I'm sure some "angry-at- _Titanic_ " readers will cringe. Me, I've seen the movie, but am no Titaniac. 

Maybe I'm obsessed (yeah, maybe) but from the moment Cal Hockley pulled that whopper out for Rose, I just couldn't stop thinking about Amanda. Also couldn't stop myself from wondering where Duncan was, since I already had a prior knowledge that he was present, so I spent that last hour at the theatre scouring the decks for the Highlander, but somehow he slipped past me. 

**HISTORICAL NOTATION::** Lloyd's of London had indeed insured _Titanic_ 's cargo of precious jewels for over $5 million a week prior to the maiden voyage, according to _The Boston Daily Globe_ 's April 16, 1912 edition. And Fifth Officer Lowe's was the only lifeboat to return for survivors. But it had been too long, and he only came back with three still alive. 

**BETA READ::** As always, much to Yakut, who has finally fallen into the _Raven_ -watchin' Alice in Stonyland-lovin' pit along with me. (Okay, so I pushed her.) She did ask, though, why immortals seem to be present at every significant event in history. _Drama, baby, drama!_ And really great history lessons. 

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© 1999  
Please send comments to author! 

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